David Weber - How firm a foundation

“It could be even worse than that, Tairaince,” Fauyair pointed out. “What if he does believe the truth… and it destroys his faith in God completely?”

All of them looked at one another silently, then Byrkyt nodded.

“We’ve been lucky in that respect so far,” he said heavily, “but sooner or later, we’re going to be un lucky. We all know that. That’s the reason we’ve recommended against telling so many candidates we know are good and godly people, and we all know that, too. And whether any of us wants to talk about it or not, we also know what Cayleb and Sharleyan-and Merlin-will find themselves forced to do if it turns out we’ve told someone and it was a mistake.”

He leaned back against the wall, regarding all of them steadily.

“I’m an old man. I won’t be party to making these decisions very much longer, and I imagine I’m going to be giving account to God for the decisions I have helped make sooner than the rest of you are. But none of us can pretend we don’t recognize the stakes we’re playing for, or that Cayleb and Sharleyan can’t afford to be anything but ruthless if it turns out we’ve told someone who will use that knowledge against us. And let’s be honest, simple outrage-the kind of outrage the best of men are most likely to feel-would be all the reason anyone would need to proclaim the truth from the highest mountain. Of course, it would probably get him killed very quickly, but how likely is that to be a factor in the thinking of someone like that? So as I see it, the real question here isn’t whether or not Father Paityr is a compassionate, loving servant of God, but whether we want to take the chance of being responsible for the death of a compassionate, loving servant of God if it should happen that his outrage upon learning the truth makes him a threat to everything we’re trying to accomplish?”

The others looked back at him in fresh silence, and then-as one-they turned to look back out the window at the young man kneeling in the borrowed habit pulling weeds in the rain.

“You weren’t joking when you said you liked salad, were you?”

Paityr Wylsynn looked up from his second large serving of salad and smiled at Brother Bahrtalam.

“Oh, I’ve always liked it,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve discovered that when I’m personally responsible for exterminating the weeds and beating off the attacks of one bug or another the tomatoes taste even better, however. And your brothers make one of the best balsamic dressings I’ve ever tried. Has the monastery ever considered marketing it? I’m sure you could raise quite a bit of revenue, and I’ve never heard of a monastery that couldn’t use more funds for charitable works!”

“That’s true enough,” Brother Tairaince put in. Saint Zherneau’s had no rule of silence, especially at meals, and the treasurer chuckled as he sat back on the bench running down the other side of the long, brilliantly polished refectory table. “And Saint Zherneau’s is no exception to the rule, either. You may have noticed we’re not exactly swimming in charitable bequests, Father.”

“As a matter of fact, I had noticed,” Paityr replied. He looked around the large, lovingly maintained and painstakingly clean dining room, then back at Bairzhair. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful monastery, Brother, and I’ve seen evidence enough of the good you do in this neighborhood, but if you’ll forgive me it’s obvious the monastery could use some improvements and overdue repairs.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve also noticed that unlike most monasteries, we’re very small,” Bairzhair responded. “Our opportunities to engage in revenue-generating crafts, or even to support ourselves with something larger than our kitchen garden, are limited, to say the least. And, alas, our ‘neighborhood,’ as you put it, lacks the resources to support even itself, much less us.” He smiled gently. “That, after all, is the reason we’re here.”

“That and to provide a place where any of our brethren who need it can find a spot to catch his breath,” Father Ahbel said, entering the conversation and smiling at Paityr. “Or, for that matter, where someone recommended by one of our brethren can catch his breath. To be totally honest, that’s really the primary reason for our existence, Father. Oh, the work we do is eminently worth doing, and the people among whom we do it are as worthy-and as needful-as any of God’s children. But the truth is that in some ways Saint Zherneau’s is actually… well, selfish would probably be too strong a word, but it’s headed in the right direction. We offer a place where people who get too caught up in the breathless, everyday race of trying to see to God’s business in His world can step back and put their hands to His work for a time, instead. Where they can participate in the simple pastoral duties that called them to God’s service in the first place. That’s one reason the brethren of Saint Zherneau make no distinction between the other orders. We’re open to Bedardists, Pasqualates, Langhornites…” He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve seen representatives of almost every order during even your relatively brief stay with us.”

“Yes, I have, Father,” Paityr replied, but his eyes had narrowed, and he sounded like a man picking his words-possibly even his thoughts-with care. “I’ve noticed, and I’ve also noticed that I’ve seen no Schuelerites.”

“No, you haven’t.” If Zhastrow was taken aback by Paityr’s observation, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and smiled gently at the younger priest. “However, Father Paityr, you’ve probably seen many more Schuelerites than I have. I mean no disrespect, but do you really think the majority of them would find the atmosphere of Saint Zherneau’s… congenial?”

“Probably not,” Paityr acknowledged, and shook his head sadly. “I think my father and Uncle Hauwerd would have, but you’re right about most of the order, I’m afraid. Which rather leads me to the question of why Archbishop Maikel thought this would be a good place to send me , I suppose.”

“I won’t presume to speak for the Archbishop,” Zhastrow replied, “but it might be because you’re not very much like the majority of Schuelerites. Again, I mean no disrespect to your order, Father, but it seems to me there’s a rather authoritarian mindset to much of what it does. I’m inclined to think that’s probably inevitable, given the nature of the Inquisition’s duties, of course. But I hope you’ll forgive me for pointing out that you-and from what I’ve heard, your father-believe the basis of true discipline has to be love, and that it must be tempered by compassion and gentleness. And from what I’ve seen of you during your visit with us, that’s almost certainly what drew you into the priesthood in the first place. For that matter,” he looked directly into Paityr’s eyes, “it’s also the reason you were so angry when you first came to us, isn’t it?”

The question came so gently it took Paityr almost completely unawares, and he found himself nodding before he’d even truly digested it.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Archbishop Maikel recognized that before I was willing to admit it even to myself. And you and Father Zhon-all the brothers-have helped me to realize just how foolish that was of me.”

“Well, now I suppose that depends in part on the reasons for your anger,” Byrkyt said.

The librarian had come into the room from behind Paityr, and the intendant turned on his bench as Byrkyt made his slow and creaky way across the floor, leaning heavily on a cane. Paityr started to get up to offer his own place, but the librarian rested a gnarled hand on his shoulder and shook his head.